


Dangerous Minds

by carvedwhalebones (fuckyeahlucifersupernatural)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5943370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/carvedwhalebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kellogg is resurrected inside of Valentine in The Memory Den, not-so-quietly joining the Sole Survivor on their journey throughout the Commonwealth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Minds

**Author's Note:**

> __  
>  **Warnings: Major spoilers ahead!**
> 
>  
> 
> **Author's Note:** I wanted to explore what it might have looked like if the story followed through with the introduction of "mnemonic impressions" of Kellogg onto Valentine.
> 
>  
> 
> **Tumblr URL:** carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com

****

**KELLOGG**

**5.22.2288**

It’s not Doctor Amari who lets the Sole Survivor in. It’s not Valentine. It’s him. 

Kellogg finds life in the bowels of The Memory Den, the pods acting as, at first, defibrillators, and later, life support. Resurrected in Valentine’s skull, it’s the hired gun who is, now, allowing them to pull back the curtain, revealing glimpses of the beast that lies underneath the Commonwealth and himself. 

Kellogg breathes and exhales in this strange form, caught between overlapping worlds where his consciousness acts as the middle ground, adjusting to the sensation of others about him. He can _feel_ heated machinery beneath him, but he can’t see it, its hum and whirl emanating beneath the blankets of pitch black. He can _feel_ the bullet that caught him dead on, burying itself into his skull, a brief flash of excruciating pain and, then, nothingness. He can _feel_ , but only in moments.

He moves a hand to touch it before realizing there is no hand. No body. No forehead. He’s formless, just a space of reflections and moments frozen in time. 

It’s possible that he’s dreaming or in the Institute’s halls, busy having his head peeled open for a new component to be shoved in-between the stuffings of his brain. It wouldn’t surprise him if the Institute moved in to salvage him, unwilling to let their attack dog go so easily, but that’s not how the old man works. It’s no coincidence that he ran into the Vault Dweller. So then what is this? He hears voices that don’t belong to him. He smells the vague, questionable scent of the Commonwealth. He sees nothing, but twisting streets of synapses.

Kellogg, with his past work with the Shi and The Institute, has seen the unearthing of many technological wonders and the rise of new ones. Perhaps it’s not so much of a stretch to think they’re weaseling into his rotting skull, pumping electricity into him, Frankenstein’s monster returning.

They are trampling onto new grounds through him, Kellogg observing this “Doctor Amari” connecting what looks like synapses to a deteriorating piece of hardware and watching neurons be coaxed back to life, signals flickering through in blurs of bruising purples and blues. That’s when he sees her, the, supposedly, _soft, pre-war Vault Dweller_ that he, foolishly, believed wouldn't come and bite him in the ass. She’s more of a mass of foreign energy, not given any real form, but he can feel every cautious step she takes forward. 

He’s not in the Institute and this is no dream. 

It’d be easy to reject the intruding forces about him, finding enough autonomy and free movement to redirect pathways or destroy synapses, but this one has his attention. Begrudgingly, he’s impressed, and, looking back now, he shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the Vault Dweller managed to unthaw herself and hound him down. After all, he understood that kind of revenge better than most. 

 Kellogg is assuming that this doctor is the one seeking out new connections and memories for the Vault Dweller to traverse through, speaking through an unseen speaker. He can feel invisible fingers attempting to tinker about with his memories or direct her to a certain sequence, but Kellogg is pushing himself into existence, determining what she is and isn’t allowed to see.   Is the Vault Dweller attempting to find out through his remains where her son is? A harsh bark of laughter leaves him, sounding more like a whine of machinery, this world of muted purples and blues fluttering at the sound. If the Vault Dweller could get this far — hell, the fact she managed to kill him is an impressive feat by itself. The old man couldn’t have anticipated this. No, not like this. 

There is a sick sensation of elatedness at the idea of the old man being outsmarted and that it was through Kellogg’s own inaction. It coaxes another bark of laughter out of him, but this time it’s his voice that resonates, not metal scratching against metal. _Ahh, there. There._ He shifts just a bit in the swirl of ink, machinery, and memories, building the means to converse in this space in his head. He’ll show her what she needs to see, not out of goodwill or out of his displeasure with The Institute, but for the sake of selfishly giving out his two cents.  More Shakespearian prophecy than man or machine, he starts where it matters. 

He starts with the gun his mother presents to him in his bedroom, his father busy howling obscenities from the other side of the door. He remembers the dark bruises around her neck where his father’s hand has left impressions of his violence upon her. He remembers the pride in her eyes as the gun is passed and he takes it, adjusting to its weight. He remembers the cool feel of the gun in his hand, the way his throat tightened, how his pulse quickened. 

_‘And all that on the radio — all useless talk. The only thing that will protect you in this world is that gun in your hands.’_

He fills the spaces and lulls between dialogue of his past with self-deprecating nuggets of wisdom and cynical reflections. If he’s going to be picked apart by this Vault Dweller, he’d be damned if it’s not on his own terms. He won’t spell out the answer she’s looking for. Sure as hell won’t hold her hand, but he won’t hide the ugly, his prophecy on what’s going to happen to her spelled out within his own shit hole of a story.  

_You’re going to end up just like me._

 Kellogg moves through his own thoughts, sifts through them, and erodes pathways he doesn’t want anyone venturing near. The disembodied voice belonged to this Doctor Amari comments with exasperation when a pathway breaks or fails to reach completion. The Vault Dweller must have some sort of idea that he’s here. These aren’t pre-recorded reflections sifting about, waiting to be discovered. She must know that he’s very much about, watching this static, intruding blur of energy through the old images of himself. 

He shows her Sarah. He shows her Mary. It’s different like this. When you’re, well, not literally stuck down memory lane, the images of the people in your life can become a bit hazy as time passes. In here, he sees Mary as she was with crystal clear clarity, naturally gravitating towards her. It’s not like he had a convenient photograph of Mary and he couldn’t bear to take any of the small, swiped toys that once was hers. Blood marred every inch of that small apartment and he can smell it, even now. It’s not quite there, yet, the blood. Not in this memory and he stills at the idea of it being shared -- _fuck._

Kellogg is scanning ahead, hiding key sequences and pulling connecting synapses apart. He misses the way that the Vault Dweller has gravitated, in turn, to the fussing Mary. Feels that familiar protective heat that makes his lips curl, an action that goes unseen and unrecorded. Even after all of this time, even to a playback of a time that he wished he appreciated, his heart still races madly when he thinks of Mary.   This is the crux of their issues. Well, was, for him, but…no, that isn’t quite true. It doesn’t pay to have a family in the toxic waste of this world. It doesn’t pay to care about others in this world. Anything past professionalism is wading into dangerous waters — it’s not some secret concept. 

He doesn’t regret Sarah and he sure as hell doesn’t regret Mary. He regrets that they had him in their lives, this walking and talking hazard attracting all sorts of hell. No matter how many times you try to beat it down — that ugly, festering knot in your gut when you think of them — it always has a way of leaving you a bit more broken.

_‘Whatever made me think a guy like me should have a daughter… I never deserved her. Not for one second.’_

He gives Mary one last good look, watching with a mixture of pride and disappointment his younger self pull her into his arms. He waves off the memory and turns to the next, pulling the Vault Dweller down a hallway, his younger self moving ahead of them. There is nothing to divulge to the Vault Dweller in this one, a voice laughing up above them. 

_‘How did you think this was going to end, Kellogg?’_

He remembers rage winning. It’s that kind of rage that sits deep in your belly and boils everything inside of you, regurgitating every moment you can’t ever get back. He hates himself for not realizing he was happy with Sarah and Mary in that small apartment. He hates himself for not holding her more. He hates that he agreed to work for the goddamn Shi. It doesn’t matter that they hid away from the political bullshit his mother warned him about as a child. The second you align yourself with one group, you got the next one aching to break your damn legs. 

_‘Just so you know — they died like dogs. And you weren’t there to help them.’_

It’s been so long since he’s felt this enraged. Not even the old man could stir anything past mild irritation. However, it’s important this Vault Dweller sees this. The irony was never lost on him when she came walking into the bowels of the fort to reach him, gun cocked and fire licking her teeth. There he was, speaking through the intercom, finally finding out what it’s like to be at the receiving end of a parent who will go through hell to set things right. He wouldn’t stoop low like they did to him when he came rushing through. He won’t harass her or gloat about his actions. It would be in poor taste not to offer, at least, one civil conversation with the woman who he helped pull into this hellish path.

_‘I understood that kind of revenge, no one better.’_

Upcoming memories as a mercenary running as far as he can from San Francisco are emotionless and crude. There are private moments he won’t share with the Vault Dweller, but he can show her what he has become. Blood, dirt, cynicism, and this newfound gift of not giving a damn has left him rough and misshapen. Everything in this world carries a price tag and if you pay him right, he’ll get rid of whatever and whoever. The Institute was nothing more than the highest bidder, not giving much thought or care to what those eggheads did on their own free time or their poor views on anything that isn’t residing in their glossy halls. 

He didn’t expect them to find ways to preserve him, shoving machinery into body parts that were beginning to fail due to age and a poor, Wastelander diet. His liver was shit. Bad left knee. They couldn’t bear to loose their useful tool on the surface, finding himself picked apart and rearranged with new metallic organs and circuitry. He didn’t expect to age slower, to remain frozen in time, and yet, retain that status of being human. He didn’t expect the eggheads to eye him with envy or the old man to hiss cruelly that he might be one of the Institute’s finest creation, Kellogg disgusted.

However, it was far too late to throw a fit about his relations with the Institute. He made his bed, now he has to lie in it, but this… This is not the proverbial second chance, but it’s something. Maybe it’s that human part of him, stubborn and unwilling to go out just yet, or maybe it’s sheer curiosity, wondering how this story will end.

So Kellogg sinks his teeth into anything — everything, brutally pushing through the neural wiring. He’s all teeth and heat, digging and digging until he finds the metal that was rumbling underneath that sea of black. As the wires detach, that doctor’s voice coaxing a _‘Mr. Valentine’_ that it is fine for him to move, it’s Kellogg who stares into a room lit by fluorescent bulbs.

He can see. He can _feel_ , his fingers twitching and — 

“I’m hoping we won’t have to do this a second time, Doc,” a voice that isn’t his sighs out, but he can feel his lips move to form the words. It makes him itch in his own skin, trying to move to relieve it, but his hands won’t move. Even looking at his surroundings is an impossible feat, his eyes remaining pinned on the woman wearing a lab coat. 

“Likewise, Mr. Valentine. The component has been removed from you, but I must admit, I’m not quite sure what the side effects may be. This has never been performed before. How do you feel?” 

His hands move, his eyes, finally, able to cast downward to watch metallic hands fold and unfold. Synth. The realization catches him by surprise, staring at the mangled synthetic skin still attempting to cling onto metal, the hue sickly and pale. This must have been the synth accompanying the Vault Dweller in Fort Hagen. He can’t say he’s seen that model before.

“A few bits and pieces are overheated, but everything is green on my end,” Valentine returns. They’re rising to their feet now, the doctor taking a step to the side, observing them walk across the room. She gives a comforting hum at the sight before moving towards her terminal, tapping a few keys. 

“There is another thing — a theory, if you must. I’ve never dabbled with that level of technology, let alone using a synth to decode human memories. There is a chance there may be leftover —“ Doctor Amari makes a motion with her hands, “— data, so to speak. There is a chance that there may be mnemonic impressions. In other words, there is a chance that the hippocampus piece inserted in you embedded itself onto you. It may just leave memories that are not yours, but his, or…hmm, it’s hard to say.” 

Kellogg gives a disgruntled sound, never having the patience to deal with egghead babble. He’s surprised when the sound leaves the synth’s mouth. 

The doctor raises her hand in a mock show of surrender, but she looks a bit annoyed at the reaction. She informs him to come to her if any abnormalities is expressed and to wait outside for the Vault Dweller. Valentine leaves with thanks on his tongue.

Out of the room, Kellogg tries, again, in moving these borrowed limbs. He forcibly pushes himself into the forefront of this synth, already feeling the frame of the synth’s cranium rise in temperature. It’s not as laborious as he envisioned; one moment someone else is taking the next step up the stairs, the next moment it’s him.   Each movement upward is strange, trying to grow accustomed to these new limbs and weight as information that isn’t his attempts to flood through. 

Eddie Winter — _Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. You fat, lazy piece of shit_ — Nick Valentine — _There's always another case to close_ — Diamond City — _Oughta ask around, see what people know_ — Skinny Malone — _Should’ve left her alone, Nicky. This ain’t the old neighborhood_ — 

 An ungraceful, distracted step nearly has him careening forward, a hand instinctually groping for the wall for support.   

It’s just best he walls out the nonsense — _‘useless talk‘_ — flooding the room he’s forced to share with another, trying to find a way to mute the synth. No amount of wrestling and metaphorical shoving is providing much of a solution. So, he starts where it matters the most. He starts with the gun his mother presents to him in his bedroom, his father busy howling obscenities from the other side of the door. He starts with himself, forcing his memories to invade and overwhelm.

There is the angry hum of machinery working too hard, but the foreign voices and recorded memories that aren’t his begin to fade. Soon it’s just him. It’s just him and the weight of overheated metal. 

Kellogg takes a step and, this time, it feels natural. 

Eyeing the rest of the stairs, he makes his way to what appears like the first floor of this building, everything bathed in warm reds. A woman on a fainting couch is smiling at him, but he ignores her, cautiously exploring the room. The arranged pods strike a familiar chord, along with the Silver Shroud memorabilia hanging about the walls. He recalls the archaic radio station, spitting out episodes of the infamous hero. Is this Goodneighbor?

It’d be easy to leave, to amble off in this newly acquired body, but Kellogg remains within the confines of the building. He stays put, not bothering to give debate on the issue or weigh out his options. Anyways, it’d be a shame not to say hello.

Exhaustion, however, is quickly starting to settle in as he paces near one of the couches. Taking control and walling out this synth’s loaded memories is taking too much energy out of him, Kellogg moving to take a seat. Machinery hisses and clicks, Kellogg curling his fingers, rolling his shoulders. 

Something of a mechanic hum leaves him when he, finally, hears footsteps nearing him, turning up to find the Vault Dweller. Lips twitch, a jaw moving for mobility, as his voice leaves him, “Hope you got what you were looking for inside of my head.” There’s something faraway about his voice, as if it’s some holotape being played on a terminal.   The Vault Dweller stiffens, eyes widening. 

He chuckles, the corner of his mouth pulling into the makings of a smirk, but it feels a bit funny on his features. “I was right. I should have killed you when you were on ice,” he finishes, but not with regret. There is a warm curl of admiration in his words, the only tip of the hat he’ll give to this walking, pre-war artifact. 

Kellogg takes a shaky intake of air, phantom lungs expanding, before exhaustion is pulling him under, lost in a jungle of wires and memories. 

*****  
**6.14.2288**

The world flickers in and out before Kellogg’s eyes. It takes a bit of fiddling with the metaphorical antenna until Kellogg can get decent reception, staring out of illuminated eyes, registering the scent and sight of the Commonwealth. Sometimes he’s in a cramped, makeshift office, staring at the messy scrawl about some missing bartender. Other times, he’s moving through the Commonwealth, staring at the Vault Dweller’s back. Today, he’s elsewhere, in the ruins of a cul-de-sac that has been repaired and refurbished. There are metallic structures sitting before him, spying the Vault Dweller working on what appears like a platform. 

Kellogg shoves and coaxes his new body into movement, moving in slow steps, crouching down to stare at the Vault Dweller’s work. Her hand is working with a few wires in the platform, often leaning over to her right to peer at sketches laid out.

“You’re taking the bait.” 

The Vault Dweller swears, hand jerking back and hitting the side of the platform she’s been tinkering with, eyes finding his. Shock morphs into mild irritation, rubbing at her abused hand. 

He’s surprised, too. He’s surprised he’s still here, feeling more like a swan song that’s soon to be puttering out of existence. 

“Still not sure what the old man wants with you,” Kellogg continues after a moment of silence, forcing limbs to move around the Vault Dweller, wanting to look a bit further at the sketches of what she is putting together. A protective hand splays across it and she moves to protect her vulnerable back, eyes narrowed in warning at him. The mercenary already has an idea of what’s being created, but he emits a staticky, pleased sound, nonetheless, at her instinctual defensiveness.

“We both know you’re not going to walk on out when it’s all said and done.” The Vault Dweller doesn’t react. She must already know that this is a one-way trip. That all she may get is one look at her son before hitting the floor. 

_But that’s more than enough_ , Kellogg hears in the silence. 

He understands. He would risk everything to get one more look at his little girl. It’s a message that resonates with the phantom.

“I wonder if you’re just another one of the old man’s pet projects or something else,” he admits when his own thoughts begin to turn too inward and discomforting. That stirs interest in the Vault Dweller’s gaze, pulling a ruthless chuckle out of Kellogg’s mouth. A smirk stretches out Nick’s features, cooing out cooly, “Piqued your curiosity, huh?” 

 The Vault Dweller opens her mouth in rebuttal, but he’s pulling away, cogs and tubes hissing and clicking. Kellogg leaves before she can utter out her response, Nick Valentine returning, ignorant of the time he has lost. 

To Kellogg’s greatest surprise, the Vault Dweller doesn’t bring him up in conversation with the synth. He remains a secret.

**——————————————————————————**

**NORA**

**6.29.2288**

Worn down and nursing an arm that feels dislocated, Nora is making an effort in finding the quickest route back to one of the allied settlements in the area, unwilling to risk making the six or so hour walk back to Sanctuary. She went head-to-head with a Super Mutant Primus and the end results have left both her and Nick ragged.   Nick, thankfully, is attentive and alert for her, acting as her eyes and ears as they make their way through unpaved terrain. As naive as it was to expect an uneventful trip back to safety, she didn’t expect to run into a small group of scavengers. However, scavengers aren’t nearly as mindless as raiders or filled to the brim with violent fanaticism like the Children of Atom. A part of her is hopeful this might end with the two of them parting ways without trading shots. 

Both parties are examining the other in silence, waiting for one or the other to make the first move. 

“Hey,” Nora straightens her posture, earning an incredulous expression from Valentine, “we don’t mean you any harm. How about we keep on going our own way and this won’t have to end poorly for you?”   Valentine gives a discouraging sound at her attempt to pacify the group, but Nora is damned if she doesn’t try. Maybe it’s the once budding lawyer inside of her that strives, so desperately, for some sort of common ground to be found. Or maybe it’s just exhaustion, unwilling to even venture the idea of a fight after having faced what she has today. Nora is venturing it’s a little bit of both and she’s praying that this will end diplomatically. 

A shot cracks through the air and Nora groans in dismay, Nick shouting at them to both find cover. 

“You know you’re not _actually_ the Silver Shroud, right?” he’s biting out when they scramble behind archaic piles of debris, Nick leaning over to fire a few shots. The Sole Survivor bites her tongue and ignores the ache in her arm, covering Nick as he reloads. Her shots are sloppy with her injury, clipping a scavenger in the shoulder, but he’s still trying to make their way around them. Another shot takes him down, but they’re fanning out, quickly discovering that moving in one mass isn’t wise.

There is a venomous swear somewhere near her left ear before a chilled hand is digging into her injured arm, earning a pained yelp. _“Just stay down,”_ a voice hisses out, unidentifiable and warped, nearly painful to hear. Before Nora can protest or shove Nick’s hand off of her arm, the synth is rising from his spot and firing. Nora is gritting her teeth and leaning out from the safety of the debris, aiming her firearm at the scavengers that are crumpling onto their knees in a red show. 

Nora heaves in relief, fires what she can to those in her sights. The detective isn’t taking any chances, prowling towards the fallen bodies and pinning them with another well-aimed bullet. She sighs and rubs at her arm, rising to her feet to meet Nick — 

“Are you out of your damn mind?!” 

It’s Kellogg’s voice that fills the air, rising in volume, the man spinning around to meet her, yellow eyes painfully bright. 

Nora bristles in return and holds her ground. “If there is a way to avoid violence, I’m going to try and take it,” she returns, earning a dark sound from the synth as he holsters his firearm. 

“Diplomacy doesn’t exist in the Commonwealth. You don’t survive on all that useless talk,” Kellogg is lecturing, moving closer until fingers are tightening around the hand still holding her firearm. They bite into her skin, Kellogg pulling her hand up until the pistol is right before them both, cutting into their vision. “The only thing that will protect you in this world is that gun in your hands. You need to learn to use it, _always_ , if you’re going to survive,” he finishes before he’s pulling away. Kellogg is using Valentine’s good hand to rub at his face, moving back in slow strides to re-examine the dead. 

“I’m still going to try, no matter what,” she calls out, defiant and sore, eager to have the last say on this topic. 

The synth raises its hand in a sign it has no interest in arguing the matter any further.   Despite it all, Kellogg remains with her until they reach Tenpines Bluff, keeping his distance from its residents as Nora inquires about using one of the spare sleeping bags. The hired gun only moves closer when the residents go back to their guard posts or to their crops, eyeing Nora who is carefully removing her equipment. The pain in her arm has escalated into a persistent, angry throb throughout their journey and relinquishing the weight of her pack has done nothing to appease it. She can only hope it’s not broken.

“I think you would have known if you broke it. I’m guessing something is popped out of place,” Kellogg observes, hovering over the Sole Survivor, watching her sigh and fiddle with her pack. Stimpaks are pulled out, but Kellogg is shaking his head, crouching down and laying a hand on the injured limb. “Stimpaks don’t pop bones back into place,” he admonishes, Nora sighing and giving a sign for Kellogg to continue. 

The beat up leather jacket she’s been wearing is carefully removed, baring her teeth when the sore limb is jostled. Kellogg was right, the flesh where shoulder and arm meet is an ugly shade of purple. Frozen fingers feel about the area and she isn’t given a countdown, just fingers suddenly locking in place, a steady palm sitting by her collarbone, and the bone is pushed back into its given slot. 

A dark swear and heated barbs are tossed at Kellogg, an amused sound burning in his throat, before he’s moving away. He’s busy patting Nick’s jacket down, giving an irritated sound when cigarettes are found. Nora takes the time to massage the sore limb, laying down on the borrowed sleeping bag. 

“Thank you.” 

There’s the soft sound of crickets continuing to drone on and the soft whirl of machinery filling the space between them. Kellogg, eventually, replies with a gruff ‘ _sure_ ’ before the whirling becomes louder, picking up speed. She doesn’t need to look at the synth to know that Valentine is returning, but, this time, it’s laborious and loud. Valentine returns in shakes and shudders, machinery working furiously. 

Nora bites her tongue, once more, when Valentine fumbles through his own memories of how they moved from Point A to Point B. She does what she can to fill in the gaps, excluding Kellogg as she recounts the events. Valentine gives a troubling sound, suggesting they visit Doctor Amari or one of the members of the Railroad to see if they can fix whatever memory issue he is facing. Nora agrees, too guilty and ashamed to admit the truth. 

Nora bites her tongue when Valentine comments, worryingly, that today’s full diagnostic is taking longer than usual. 

*****  
**7.18.2288**

She’s gotten into the sick habit of calling upon Kellogg. It’s not often, but she administers the blame evenly between them. While she may coax Kellogg back into the scene, Kellogg fills the void with nuances, snippets of wisdom, and idle reflections of the world. He wants an audience, too.

The cogs will click, eyes flicker a bit brighter, and Valentine’s posture becomes more natural, shoulders hunching just a bit forward, fingers making the motion for a cigar. Nora has spent more than few restless nights trying to diagnose and make sense of what exactly occurred in The Memory Den and what is continuing to persist. Mnemonic impressions feel like a poor term to describe the other mind at play inside of Valentine. 

Nora doesn’t know why she’s keeping him a secret, feeling no better after her speech to Valentine outside of Eddie Winter’s bunker that he’s his own person or how, when visiting Tinker Tom, no issue was found with Nick. Thinking about it, now, makes her feel worse for wear, the two of them making camp in a nearly collapsed store in Concord.   Nora angrily scrubs at her forehead with the edge of her sleeve, wiping off the caked concoction of dirt and sweat. Everything is a mess. With Shaun, the Institute, the Railroad, the Brotherhood of Steel, and Minutemen duties, she feels stretched thin, pressured to give her allegiance to one singular cause or else. Bitterly, Nora has discovered the deeper she lends her hand in support to each fraction, do Kellogg’s words ring true in every conversation and interaction with each fraction leader.

_‘Diplomacy doesn’t exist in the Commonwealth.’_

Hell, Desdemona wouldn’t even speak to her until she agreed to fully back the Railroad over the Minutemen. 

It’s becoming a bit easier to lie to them all, somehow managing to maintain good standings with them all, but she knows it’ll catch up. She can’t play nice with all of them forever and none of them are interested in changing their views for a peaceful resolution. Yet, for some bizarre reason, Kellogg has remained a constant. While there is still animosity towards the man, she has found that keeping him within sight is more benefit than burden. 

They have formulated a transactional relationship, trading reflections and bits of history. Kellogg has no real opinion on any of the fractions, has nothing to gain or lose, doesn’t care if one rises or falls, and takes great efforts to lecture her when she brings up the topic of morality. It’s difficult to maintain that heated fury towards the man when justice has been served. Kellogg _is_ dead, having successfully killed the man who has murdered her spouse and helped steal her child. There’s not more she can reap from the man without harming Valentine and Kellogg shows no real inclination of causing harm. He just observes and continues to share his cynicism and biting truths, always leaving her with a clearer and darker picture of the world. 

Sometimes she wonders if they’re still stuck in the Memory Den, both caught in a loop with him commenting on the world around them while observing her own trek through it all. While the monologue has changed into a dialogue, the words remain recycled.   It doesn’t help that they’re crude parallels, pushed onto the same path due to personal tragedy. Kellogg is waiting to see if she’ll end up just like him and Nora is, still, hoping to somehow cheat time and rebuild a life with her family.

A San Fransisco Sunlight is passed to Kellogg and he holds it between Nick’s fingers before seeking out a lighter. Nick’s face glows orange from the procured flame, Kellogg’s voice humming in content, smoke soon drifting past borrowed lips. 

“What’s Shaun like?” Nora breaks the silence, earning a quizzical look from the hired gun. The Sole Survivor elaborates, “Shaun when he was growing up, I mean.” 

Kellogg toys with the cigar in his hand, quiet for a moment, before making a shrugging motion. “I can’t really say, I rarely was invited into the Institute, save for when…health issues needed to be addressed. I was, usually, contacted by the higher ups through those eggheads on the field. Later on, Coursers started to take their place, acting as Institute…liaisons. I, later on, became further _acquainted_ ,” Kellogg explains, his words carrying a sardonic tone that speaks volumes, “with the old man a bit more when he started to move through the ranks. Long story short, and unsurprisingly, he never liked me and I never liked him. After all, he did use you to tidy me up.” 

“Were you surprised?” 

Kellogg taps the ash collecting on the end of the cigar, yellow eyes staring elsewhere, flickering to and fro with thought. “The whole setup in Damond City was the old man’s idea and I thought it was terrible. Too exposed. Too many risks. It seems obvious now that the boy and I were bait for you. If it wasn’t for the incident with one of their own jumping ship and managing to leave…” Kellogg trails off and shakes his head before bringing the cigar back towards his mouth. “Makes you wonder if he’d watch you run off with the kid after gunning me down and see what comes after that,” Kellogg comments and Nora frowns, not sure how she feels on that possible outcome. 

 Kellogg’s head tilts to the right in consideration, something of a smile pulling on his lips, “I ended up kind of liking the kid. Nice kid. I tried not to get too attached, but he was a reminder of what my life might have been if things had turned out differently.” 

“If you had the chance, would you…” 

Nora trails off, but Kellogg already knows the ending to the question. A disgruntled sound emits out of Kellogg, unwilling to humor the question with a response, but the unspoken ‘ _yes_ ’ fills the silence like a choked out scream. 

*****  
**7.26.2288**

Shaun wants her at the helm of The Institute. While he remains vague about the exact duties or how she, exactly, is a perfect fit, a few of the council members paint a possible picture of her role. She’d carry her work out above ground with the Coursers.

“You’d be my replacement,” Kellogg reflects, his prediction nearly reaching fruition.

The question becomes whether or not she will throw the Commonwealth into further disarray for a few more moments with her son.

Nora takes the next few days to reflect by herself, hiking up to the Vault. She sees Kellogg in her reflection as she peers through the glass of every pod. She sees only herself when she finds Nate, slumped and frozen behind glass. 

Nora drags him out of his pod, skin far too cold and sticking onto her own. It takes an hour to move him from the Vault to The Sanctuary, finding a way to evenly distribute him over her shoulders. While the Sanctuary residents steer clear of the sight out of respect and mild horror, Kellogg is not far off. She knows it's _him_ \- hopes it's him. With fire burning her tongue, she digs into the earth behind the ruins of her old home. This feels like righteous revenge, tasting foul and, yet, sweet in her mouth. She hopes that he's uncomfortable. Hopes that this stirs old memories he had no interest in reliving. 

When she's finished, mentally and physically exhausted, she curls and uncurls life back into aching, rigid hands. She snaps back into reality, finding Kellogg still present, the only witness to this burial. Nora crooks her fingers in gesture at him. It's Kellogg's turn to pass her the cigar. 

*****  
**8.10.2288**

There is a crater of broken flesh, split open by a bullet that is left of her husband.    

There is a crater of broken ground, split open by heat, force — _her_ — that is left of her son. 

The C.I.T. ruins remain heavily irradiated after the final blow to the Institute, Geiger counter clicking madly near her ear. Nora can feel it washing over her. Heat still emanates from the blast zone, as if the facility is still burning, roughly scraping against her cheeks, drying out her eyes. The ground still trembles from underneath her, but that may be from the radiation sickness she is developing, nausea building in her stomach and making her legs shake. 

The minute she pressed the button is the minute she regretted her actions. It felt as if she was ruthlessly erasing whatever remaining time she could have spent finding better ways to connect with her son.   It’s tempting to fall forward and dig into the charred earth, a last, foolish attempt to cheat reality. As if she could heave him out of the obliterated remains of the facility, people, and machinery, finding him, miraculously, preserved and well. 

The nausea manages to keep her in place. 

Closing her eyes, fear, rage, and sick rise up in her throat. Bile wins, in the end, hunching over to violently vomit the meager meal she’s had this morning. She forces herself to heave whatever else is left in her gut, partially out of spite. 

_Pointless._ This whole journey — this struggle — was pointless. 

There is that hot rage that ruins and rots, sitting heavy on her mind. Kellogg’s prediction still holds, even with her not fitting into the role as The Institute’s glorified attack dog. She’s a bit more misshapen, a bit more lost, and touching upon a dissociating numbness. 

Fingers, still chilled despite the long hike to this spot, find her, pressing into her forearm. Even with her Geiger counter protesting loudly, she can still hear the familiar whirl of machinery, the steady click of cogs and pieces aligning themselves. Nora forces herself to stand up straight, wiping the excess vomit and spit off from her mouth and nose. Nick Valentine greets with a cursory look over her features, but it’s not his voice that leaves his mouth. 

“It’s gone,” Kellogg’s voice comes rolling out, trapped and a bit faded about the edges. It’s not sympathy nor is it gloating. Kellogg is the clear voice of reason she didn’t ask for, the biting reminder that there is no such thing as a happy ending. While the others have congratulated her for what she has achieved within this year, rooms filled with _‘mission accomplished’_ and _‘ad victoriam,’_ Kellogg is the only one who doesn’t greet her with praise or morose apologies. 

She repeats an old thought — a tired reflection Kellogg once gave in his skull in The Memory Den as they leave the ruins: _‘The thing about happiness is that you only know you had it when it’s gone.’_

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Let me know in a review!_


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